“I um. Anyway,” she continued. “I remember there was this one time, you were four I believe, you were at my house and I put you to sleep. And after about an hour and a half I didn’t hear anything from the room so I decided to peek my head in and check on you—just to make sure you were sleeping. But. When I opened the door, I found you standing there. Covering your ENTIRE body with lotion. Completely drenched from head-to-toe.

And you had the biggest smiled on your face.

And my god, Olive. You made such a mess.

But.

You were so happy…I remembered hoping you’d always be that way…I hope you’re still happy.”

“I am.”

We finished our meals and left the restaurant arm in arm. Made plans to go shopping the weekend after that.

And then parted ways.

And after a long nap measured in mimosa-induced minutes, I woke up in my bedroom mid-afternoon and I got to thinking, and I got to thinking a lot.

About happiness.

And how sometimes it takes a lot. And most times it can take very little.

That big happiness is undoubtedly important.

But.

Maybe it’s true that the building blocks of it can be measured in mini blisses along the way.

Birthday brunches. Lingerie. And lots of lotion too.

And then I thought.

About my younger sister. Who as a baby, would spend almost every day eating Cheetos on the couch. Because no greater euphoria seemed to exist anywhere else.

Lady in the making.

And then I thought about Leah.

And that one weekend in May 2014. When we were so overwhelmed. So stressed out. So incapable of partaking in real life. That we jumped in the car on a Saturday morning.